Falling for Colton (Falling #5) (7 page)

“What’chu want, man?”

“You’re a mechanic?”

“Yeah, why?” He’s still tensed, hands in his pocket. Probably fingering a weapon.
 

I keep my hands on the straps of my backpack so they are visible. “I’m looking for work. I know cars, I know engines. I’ll do anything.”
 

He backs up. “Can’t help you. Sorry, man. I just got work myself. Change the oil and shit. They just hired me, probably won’t hire nobody else.”
 

“Fuck.” I back up, lift my chin at him. “Thanks.”
 

“Yeah, man.” He watches me over his shoulder as he walks away.

I keep walking. The gray dawn turns to day, and I’m miles and miles from where I started—that bench in Central Park. Early morning quickly turns to noon, and in that time I’ve changed directions, asked for work at three more garages. It’s all I know, and it’s all the talent I have to offer. I don’t think much of my chances of applying for anything else. Applications mean writing. Mean reading. Answering questions.
Name a time you provided excellent customer service
. I remember that from the application I had to fill out for Mr. Boyd. He made me fill it out, I don’t know why. So I’d know how, I guess.
 

I spend the day walking. The entire fucking day. It ain’t like the neighborhoods are labeled or anything, so I’ve got no clue where I am. I’m in a worn-down area, not quite a ghetto but, being white, I stand out for sure, especially in broad daylight.
 

Near sundown, I see a guy struggling to get a couch onto a moving van by himself. How he got it this far, I don’t know. It’s a big-ass leather couch, and it looks heavy as hell.
 

“Hey man, need help?” I ask, approaching him.

He sets the end down, wipes sweat off his forehead. “Sure.” He hops up into the moving van. “Grab the end, lift it up.”
 

I help him get the couch into the moving van and positioned against the wall.

He hops down. “Thanks.”

I follow him and we lean back against the truck. “No problem,” I say.

He eyes me. He’s Hispanic, short and thick, with a sleeveless shirt revealing tats from shoulder to knuckles. “I got some other shit to bring down. My boy was supposed to help me, but he bailed on me. I’ll toss you a ten-spot if you help me with the rest.”

“Fuck, man, I’ll help you for some
food
. I ain’t eaten in a few days.”
 

He digs into the hip pocket of his baggy shorts, the hem of which hangs to mid-shin. “Sucks.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Smoke?”
 

I take one, and he lights mine and then his own with a plain silver Zippo lighter. We smoke in silence, and then he tosses his butt out into the road and indicates for me to follow him. His apartment is two floors up, and he’s got his shit packed in boxes, all piled in his living room, a stack of framed posters near the door, a recliner to match the couch, a big TV wrapped up in a comforter.
 

I spend an hour helping him get his stuff onto the truck. When the apartment is empty, he digs in his pocket and hands me the rest of his cigarettes, his Zippo, and a ten-dollar bill.
 

“I’m about to do a nickel at the pen, so I got no food to give you. Puttin’ all my shit in storage.”
 

I extend the Zippo back toward him. “You wanna keep your lighter?”

He shrugs. “It’ll just get taken when I turn myself in.” He holds up his hand, and I clap palms with him, lean in, bump shoulders. The thug-hug, I think of it. “There’s a bridge a few blocks north. Good spot to crash.”
 

“Thanks.”
 

He climbs up into the moving truck, rolls the window down, and rests his arm on the door frame, ink covering his forearms and knuckles. He drives off. I never even got his name.
 

He leans out of the window, about twenty feet away. “Yo, man! Check the bottom of the pack!” Then he turns the corner, and he’s gone.

I bring out the pack, nudge aside the last few cigarettes, and see that he’s stashed a nugget of pot at the bottom. Enough to tip a couple smokes. Score.

I head north and see the bridge he mentioned. It’s just a little overpass; two lanes with a gap between them letting down a ribbon of light. Steeply angled concrete walls rise from the road underneath to meet the bridge overhead, leaving a low, narrow ridge at the top where the two structures meet. Tags mark the concrete, overlapping black and red paint in dramatic swirls and lines and arcs, indecipherable unless you know what you’re looking at. Glancing around for traffic and onlookers, I find things empty for the moment. I climb up the concrete wall and, at the top, the bridge is so close and low that I can’t stand up straight.
 

There’s a pile of newspapers in the middle of the ledge; most are ripped and torn and stained, obviously having been there a while. Good enough. I lie down on them, put my head on my backpack, and tuck my hands into my armpits. Curl up.
 

Dark. Cool. Not quite cold, but enough to make me sit up, dig in my backpack for a hoodie. I tug the hood over my head and lie back down.
 

Concrete, even cushioned by newspapers, isn’t comfortable.
 

I manage to sleep, though.
 

For a while.

I’m woken by a vicious kick to my back, knocking the wind out of me. “My spot!” A shout, guttural, enraged. “Get outta my spot!”
 

Another kick, but I’m already moving, rolling, knees up to protect my stomach and nuts. Take the kick to my shins, make out the face of an old, grizzled white man with a long dirty gray beard. My shins scream from the kick, but I’m up, on my feet, backpedaling.
 

The old bum lunges at me. “My spot, motherfucker! Stay out of my spot!”
 

I’m dazed with sleep, breathless from the kick to my back, dizzy and faint with hunger.
 

Rage suffuses me. “Fuck you, old man! I found it. I’m sleeping there.”

We crash into each other. He’s skinny and wiry, but strong. Hard. Knees and elbows and fists crack into me, ramming into my gut over and over and over. I tense my muscles and take it, shove him back, lash out. Normally, this old man would be down in seconds, but I’m literally faint with hunger. Three days, maybe more since I’ve had something decent to eat. No sleep but for a few winks here and there, all of it interrupted. Hours of walking. I’m not at the top of my game.

But I’m desperate. I
need
to sleep.
 

So I fight hard. It’s messy, man. He’s a tough old fuck, takes the body blows and gives ’em back just as hard. He smashes my nose with his forehead, and I’m bleeding. I manage to get a knee up and shove it into his groin, a dirty move, but shit, this is about winning. It’s about survival. I’m not sure he won’t kill me if I lose. I can’t lose. Don’t dare lose.
 

Red stains my vision, and my eye hurts. My eyebrow is split open. I blink the blood away and see that the old dickhead is slowing down, hobbling. I remember vaguely nailing him in the thigh, a move I learned the hard way: if you get nailed hard enough in the right spot in your thigh, it’ll fuckin’ cripple your ass. Now I rush him, both fists swinging in hard sloppy haymakers, one crushes into his cheekbone, the other his ribs. I feel something crack.
 

He coughs, stumbles, trips, and slides down the concrete. He comes to rest against the pillars separating the road from the embankment.
 

I watch. He moans, stirs, but doesn’t get up.
 

Shit, that could be me down there.

I watch for another minute, and eventually he gets up, slowly. Stares up at me. Throws me the finger, but hobbles away, vanishing into the shadows.
 

I lurch back to my spot. My hard-won spot. I lie down again. The world spins worse than being drunk. Everything hurts.

I’m fading fast, but something keeps me awake. I hear a footstep.
 

Goddamn it. I just want to sleep.
 

“Hell of a fight, man.” The voice is deep and slow, a ways off.
 

I sit up. Peer blearily into the shadows. “Yeah.”
 

“Ol’ Bruce has been in that spot for years. Seen him wreck some folks to keep ’em off.” Flame spurts, an orange glow appears. Smoke wreathes upward; the glowing cherry illuminates a round, black face, white teeth.
 

“I just needed somewhere to sleep. He kicked me while I was laying here.”

“I ain’t said nothin’. Bruce is a miserable old fucker. Hates everybody.” The glow brightens, tobacco crackles.

I light my own smoke, stay where I am. Fought for this spot, not giving it up easily. I feel an urge to defend myself, to fill the silence. But I don’t.

Eventually the other guy tosses his cigarette away and I sense he is considering something. “Wanna make a hundred bucks right quick?”

“Doing what?” I ask.

“I’ll show you.”

I know better. I’m cursing myself for an idiot even as I stand up and follow the guy. I’m gonna get shot. Rolled. Something. I mean, this is really stupid.

But it’s a hundred bucks. With a hundred bucks I could get a motel room and sleep in a bed.
 

Not much I won’t do for a hundred bucks, at this point.

So I shoulder my bag and follow the guy, leaving the spot I just fought somebody for. He leads me out from under the bridge, and an orange streetlight reveals him to be a black guy about five years older than me, wearing baggy black jeans, Timberland boots, a black T-shirt, black Yankees ball cap turned on an angle, tilted, over a stretchy headband. He walks with a confident swagger. Doesn’t look back to see if I’m following—he knows I am. He’s muscular, heavy-set, but deceptively light on his feet. And as I’m following him, I notice the way the back of his T-shirt hangs over his jeans, revealing the handle of a pistol in his waistband.
 

What am I getting myself into?

Shit.

He leads me off the main road and down an alley. Shit, shit, shit. I’m for sure about to get killed. I slow down, putting space between me and the other guy.
 

He notices. “Hey, man. Keep up. I ain’t gonna do nothin’.”
 

“Like you would tell me if you were?”
 

He laughs. “Got that right.” He gestures at an old Buick. “Get in. We goin’ for a drive.”
 

I slide into the passenger seat. The car smells like old car, cigarettes, pot, something harder, crack maybe. He starts the car, and the engine turns over immediately. He revs the engine, and it responds with the deep bass snarl of an engine definitely not original to the Buick.
 

“What you got under the hood?” I ask.

He glances at me, shrugs. “350. I had my boy hook me up.”
 

Meaning, he don’t know much about the engine but what his friend told him. There are all kinds of “350” engine blocks, varying by year, original manufacturer, bore, stroke, a whole bunch of shit. Saying it’s a 350 is like saying it’s a V-8—a little vague.
 

The outside of the car doesn’t look like much, a little beat up, rust on the edges. The inside is comfy, that old velvety material on the seats. Custom stereo receiver and speakers, probably some big-ass woofers in back. It’s not the prettiest car on the block, but that engine snarl has the sound of some beefy power, so I’m guessing this old babe can move.
 

He pulls his car down the alley, navigating without headlights until he hits the main road. The radio is silent. When we’re moving down the road, he flips on his lights, twists on the stereo. Rap thuds low, bass vibrating heavily.
 

A glance at me. “I’m Eli.”
 

“Colt.” I watch the buildings pass by, and we drive through the occasional intersection. It’s late, the middle of the night. I could be anywhere in New York City right now, and he could be taking me God knows where. I’m such a dumbass. “Where are we going, Eli?”

A white-teeth grin, sidelong glance. “Why, you nervous, white boy?”

“Hell yeah.” I say it with a laugh, but it’s true.

“I got’chu, man. You wouldn’t be in my car if I was gonna cap you.” A pause for effect. “That shit is messy.”

I glance at him, but this doesn’t seem to be a joke. “Right.”
 

He’s still not telling me how I’ll be making this quick hundred bucks but I don’t push it. We drive for a long time, winding through one neighborhood after another, cruising slow. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, but he isn’t in a hurry to get there. He’s always watching his surroundings, eyeing the few people on the sidewalk. He watches the intersections carefully as he cruises through them.

I’m jittery. Nervous. Scared. Knee bouncing, hands curling into fists and uncurling, palms sweaty. My stomach growls loudly.

“Hungry?” Eli asks.

“Been a few days,” I admit.

“I got’chu.” This seems to be a stock response for Eli, the meaning varying by context.
 

I watch the digital clock on the stereo receiver. I got in the car at 1:28 a.m.; we’ve been cruising slowly for almost an hour now. A few minutes later Eli pulls into an alley between two mammoth buildings. It’s not really an alley, I realize, so much as just a space between them. Both buildings are old warehouses made of corrugated iron walls with rust streaking down the sides. The windows up near the roof are all smashed and jagged. Glass crunches under the wheels of the Buick. Eli flicks his lights off and on twice, quickly, and then leaves them off. In the distance, the single circle of light from a flashlight winks twice in response.
 

We roll forward very, very slowly. Eli reaches behind his back, wiggles the handle of his pistol, but doesn’t pull it out. My heart is in my throat. The air feels thick and tense.
 

“Leave your bag. Nobody gonna mess with it in my ride.” Eli glances at me as he pulls to a stop, seemingly at random. “I got your back. Don’t talk to no one, and stick with me.”